


In the end, we're all alone

by Mary_from_Maryland



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, Grief, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_from_Maryland/pseuds/Mary_from_Maryland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s over, Harold,” John murmurs, and suddenly Harold is four years old again. His mother is leaving him at kindergarten, soothing him with soft words while she gently pries his hands away from her wrist, but he follows her to the hall and buries his face into her skirt, his throat tight with tears he’s too shy to shed, knowing she has to leave but stubbornly refusing to accept it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the end, we're all alone

Harold stands up and paces the room. Bear pricks his ears and lets out a soft whine, following his master’s movements from under the desk.

“Mr. Reese?” Harold says for the umpteenth time, standing in front of the notice board. His earpiece crackles and buzzes in reply. Trust Mahler and his lackeys to choose an underground passage for John to meet them. Then, of course, it’s not as if Harold has ever agreed with the idea of infiltrating the most powerful pimping gang in the city in the first place. If only John had –

His recriminations are cut short by the sudden sound of gunshot, yelling, people running, crying out in pain. “Mr. Reese?” he practically shouts over the background noise. “John, for the love of –”

“Worried about me, Finch?” John is panting heavily, but the playful lilt in his voice tells Harold he’s not hurt. At least, not life-threateningly hurt. Relief and irritation wash over him in waves.

“Of course I am,” he snaps back. “In fact, I’ve been extremely worried since your brilliant deci- John?”

  For a while, it’s just thuds and groans, the unappealing soundtrack Harold has learnt to associate with hand-to-hand combat. He restrains himself from speaking; John won’t have concentration to spare. He rests his hand on his cell phone, ready to dial Carter’s number if it sounds necessary.

The noise is subsiding. Harold wonders whether the connection has gone off again, then he realizes someone must be pressing John’s head against the ground, crushing his earpiece beneath it. He hears a grinding sound, a sharp gasp on John’s behalf, another set of dull thuds and groans, then nothing.  “John?” he asks tentatively, his heart beating too fast. Bear whines again.

“I’m all right, Finch.” John’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“Are you – are you quite sure?” Harold tries not to sound scared to the bone. He’ll probably never get used to this, but he doesn’t need Reese to notice.

“Yeah. I could use a ride, though,” John says after a moment, a little louder. “And Harold?”

“Yes?”

“Come alone.”

#

 He gets out of the car and hobbles towards the dark underground passage. It’s not a good day for his back. There rarely are.

John is half-lying, half-sitting on the concrete floor just inside the entrance, his back against the wall. The place is deserted, except for a half dozen bodies lying still on the ground at the other end of the passage. Harold inhales the cool dusty air and crouches beside him, barely disguising a wince.

“Are you hurt?”

John shakes his head. Harold gently pulls aside the hems of his suit jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt with slightly unsteady fingers. There’s no alarming amount of blood to be seen, just the usual bruises and scratches. He glances up to John.

“Let’s go home,” he says, but John shakes his head again, a strange hardness in his eyes, and then he looks away. Harold represses an instinctive shudder.

“What’s the matter?”  

“I’m not coming home, Harold.” John says softly.

Harold has to wet his lips before asking, “Why not?”

John’s jaw works. He stares at the ceiling and says darkly, “He poisoned me.”

Harold glances over at the heap of nondescript bodies, then gapes at John. “What?”

John meets his eyes. “I’ll fall asleep in an hour or so. Won’t wake up.” He frowns, studying Harold’s face. “I’m not in pain.”

 “What?” Harold repeats. His brain isn’t functioning properly.

“It’s over, Harold,” John murmurs, and suddenly Harold is four years old again. His mother is leaving him at kindergarten, soothing him with soft words while she gently pries his hands away from her wrist, but he follows her to the hall and buries his face into her skirt, his throat tight with tears he’s too shy to shed, knowing she has to leave but stubbornly refusing to accept it.

He shakes his head, stands up, almost stumbles backwards. “It can’t be – it can’t be _over_ – there has to be –”

John glances up to him. “Too late.”

Harold stands in front of him. His thoughts are slow and distant. He nearly starts when John says, “Can I borrow your cell phone?”

“S-sure,” he stammers, fumbling with his coat. He hands the phone to John.

Carter is silent for a long moment, and then she’s crying. Harold cringes inwardly at the metallic sound of her sobs coming through the microphone. His throat feels like it’s going to rip up.

John hangs up, hands him the cell phone. “Fusco isn’t answering,” he says. Harold nods once and takes the phone back. He looks at the spider webs stretching between the floor and the wall, the ugly purple graffiti above them, the pale sun on the back of his hand.

“Harold,” John says, and his voice isn’t steady anymore. Harold looks up to him and sees his own fear mirrored in John’s eyes. He clenches his teeth.

“W-will you hold my hand?” John asks.

“Of course,” Harold manages around the lump in his throat, and wishes he could be calm and reassuring. He can’t. He takes John’s hand in both of his and looks him in the eyes. He’s finding it painful to breathe.

Silence stretches between them. “Would you like me to – say something?” Harold asks after a while. He thinks about minutes ticking by, eating time away. He compares the years he’s going to live alone to what is left of ‘an hour or so’ and it’s like a punch to the pit of his stomach.

John cracks a half-smile which doesn’t last long and says, “Tell me about you.”

Harold has to clear his voice several times before starting, but then he does tell John about himself. He tells him everything. John’s breathing eases a bit, and he laughs about the part of the sedition charges. Harold laughs with him, but that’s not a good idea, because soon enough he’s buried his face into his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Harold,” John begins, but Harold is not in control of himself anymore, and he cries even louder, his breathing coming in ragged gasps which border on hyperventilation, his fists clenched.

“John,” he slurs, “John please don’t go… Please don’t, don’t go…”

John pulls him to his chest and holds him, and Harold grabs fistfuls of John’s shirt as he listens to his slow heartbeat and pictures the moment it will stop. He whimpers helplessly.

“It’s all right,” John murmurs softly, stroking his hair. He holds him closer and presses his lips against Harold’s forehead. Harold looks up to him and they kiss between streaming tears, impossibly tender.

Harold finds he can get a hold of himself afterwards, and it’s his turn stroking John’s hair, circling his shivering chest with shivering arms, telling him it’s all right, over and over again. “It’s all right, John. I’m right here. I’m right here,” he says, feeling faintly sick. John holds onto him for dear life and lets out a low steady moan that scares the hell out of him. “I don’t want to go,” he whispers, and then his shoulders are shaking violently, and then he’s silent.

“John?”


End file.
